


The Web

by specificskillset



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Platonic Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 10:36:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/specificskillset/pseuds/specificskillset





	The Web

  
  
He's alone again. Tries not to dwell on it - alone is strength after all. Always has been. Always will be. Except...Well, exceptions prove rules, isn't that right?  
     There's still the memories. A cup of tea, the way they liked it. A striped sweater. A meal he orders for the empty seat, left untouched. He doesn't linger on them.  
     He walks, he runs, free for the first time in a long time. No home, no connections, just strings to cut.  
     But, no. No connections is a lie that he tells himself to feel strong. She calls sometimes, when the death around her starts to feel lonely, or when her caring heart remembers his name. They talk. She talks, awkwardly edging around the one thing he wants to hear more than anything. He doesn't know why he cuts her off every time the name is mentioned.  
     Country to country, false names on airplane tickets and cash at every motel room. His money for as long as he can afford it, but that leaves him too. So he takes what he needs from computer screens and stolen credit cards. God, how he would be looked down on at home. For this, among so many other things.  
    But he looks past it all, the problem ahead more important than other trivial concerns. One by one, the strings are cut. The web is falling. It was doing it on its own, spider left its home for something far beyond. He's just speeding the process, getting it done before another settles in, one big enough to hurt. There's a second, or so he's heard, but no signs yet. He turns to other paths, patient for now.  
    He doesn't get distracted, or so he tells himself. He ignores the slips of his rigidly trained mind. A detective inspector, a landlady, a - no. Even in sleep, he doesn't go there.  
    Another tower topples and he smiles, a rare occurrence now that no one's here to make sure he does. Now it's the only thing that he enjoys, the destruction of the biggest evil he knows.  
     He goes to the most desolate places he's ever been, and the most beautiful. It doesn't matter. His eyes are trained for details, clear signs. Not beauty.  
     Loneliness strikes, once or twice, so deep that even he can't push it down. The phone turns in his hands, minutes turn to hours and, no, that's not a tear. Alone is a good thing. Alone achieves his goals.  
     Despite this, he never questions where he'll go once this is finished. He never thinks about it, but there's only one possible answer. A name, one he hasn't said since his goodbye.  
    He's almost finished, one by one, two by two and another one down makes it a whole year. No, year and a half. He tries to shorten it to ease the guilt, but he's too sensible, too detail-focused for it to work.   
     Countless strings have been cut, and of course it doesn't mean anything when he returns to London for another thread and stands outside the flat for an hour or so. Home. The word enters his mind and he doesn't push it away. Sentimentality has no place here, he knows that. He's just so close that it almost doesn't matter.  
     Out of London, and there's no sadness. Strange, but true. He's happy, content in the knowledge that it's not forever. Finally, he has a time. A plan for the end.  
     He finds the second. The man did a terrible job of protecting a legacy, and himself too. Another reason he deserves his fate.  
     It's not a grand finale. That's not his style, never has been. It's a gun and blood and a body where no one will ever find, and he, of all people, would know.  
     Then there's the return. He spends too long between murder and an aeroplane, for reasons he's finally faces. He's always known, he's too smart to have ignored it, but it got buried. Words come back, words that once haunted him, now make him smile. Heartless, cold, and _doesn't that matter to you?_  
    It didn't until he was about to lose. But now it does. Because he finally has something worth losing.  
    The return is a small affair. No baggage, just a landing and a phone call, a telltale sign that maybe he has missed his brother. Mycroft is surprisingly upset but doesn't seem surprised himself.  
     He gets the address and a cab ride and sends texts. One to Lestrade, a short, characteristic one that he's going to get told off for later. One to Molly, oddly heartfelt, letting her know where he is. One to Anderson, because he's finally home and he feels so elated to be back in this city, in _his_ city, that he figures why the hell not.  
    He ends up in a London street he knows better than any street in the world, and he's seen many these past few years.   
     He stands outside the door for longer than he should. It's not as familiar as 221b, but it's still Baker Street. Molly had told him the story - Mrs Hudson lived alone now, but she had a neighbour down the street who couldn't stand the memories and visited whenever he could.  
    He paces a few times, and he understands this emotion, this nervousness, though it's unfamiliar. He wishes he didn't have it. The doorbell keeps drawing his gaze, and the old-fashioned knocker, but his hands can't seem to get there.  
    It takes at least five minutes before he gets up the courage to reach his hand towards the doorbell. Before he can touch it, though, the door swings open.  
     _He_ stands there, arms crossed. It looks like he's been there for a few minutes. His face wears the familiar angry expression. Except, no, there's a hint there, in the crinkle of his eyes ( _he looks old_ ), in the slight lift of the corner of his mouth ( _he looks sad_ ), in the twitch of his hand ( _he got married_ ). He's happy.  
     'I can't believe you did that to me,'  
     'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I couldn't take any chances.'  
     There's a pause, and he can see the surprise as clearly as the woollen jumper.  
     'I feel like punching you right now, I really do,' But he's always been good at reading people, and he can already tell that's not going to happen.  
     'I had no choice, I'm so sorry,'  
     'You're actually sorry?' It's a question, but he can tell the answer's clear in his face. He nods anyway.  
     'I missed you,' He says quickly, uncomfortably and totally sincerely.  
There's a little breath, shocked and teary and then there's arms around him and a warm head on his chest, and he's never, ever felt a hug with so many layers to it. He's never hugged anyone back this hard.  
     'I missed you too. So much,' There's a shaky breath and a step back. There are attempts at smiles and brushes at eyes that they both ignore.  
     'I'm sorry,' It makes him happy, to see that smile becomes more real, somehow.  
     'Hello, Sherlock,'  
     'Hello, John.'


End file.
